Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.
William ShakespeareOh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
William ShakespeareNew customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
William Shakespeare